


The Courtier and the King

by fiftysevenacademics (rapiddescent)



Category: Richard II - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Jealousy, M/M, Nudity, Suggestive Themes, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-14 02:30:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2174769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rapiddescent/pseuds/fiftysevenacademics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When loving a king is both duty and passion, can you ever really win?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Courtier and the King

**Author's Note:**

  * For [madamedarque](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madamedarque/gifts).



> Interpretation and characters loosely based on the 2013-14 RSC production of Richard II. The prompt asked for Aumerle pining and jealous in the early parts of the play, but I had Bushy on the brain and I hope this is OK.

Richard drums his fingers on the windowsill, staring off into the landscape. Every now and then Bushy sees a sparkle where the morning sun touches his gilded nails.

"Bolingbroke could die in the contest with Mowbray." He turns to look at Bushy, whose bare body is half tangled in the bedsheets. "He’s my cousin. My own cousin."

"Don’t look so sad, my lord. Come here and let me help you feel better," Bushy pulls the coverlet aside just enough to show Richard what he is missing.

His hand falls flat upon the windowsill as he takes in the shapely body Bushy offers. He is small and muscular, with blond hair and a delicate face. Delight flickers in Richard for a moment before he turns his head back toward the window.

"I don’t know what to do," he sighs, and his whole torso seems to shrink with the breath he exhales.

Bushy extricates himself from the bedclothes and sits, naked, on the windowsill, his face between Richard's and the world outside, and holds Richard's face in his palms.

"I do," he says, placing his mouth on Richard's.

Richard accepts his kiss. Encouraged, Bushy leans in, folds his arms around Richard's shoulders, and squeezes them as his mouth closes in on Richard's again. Richard's sun-warmed skin heats Bushy's chest and a strand of his long chestnut hair flutters over Bushy's eyes on a puff of breeze. Bushy does not care if someone below sees them, does not care if anyone knows that right here, right now, in the pink mantle of the sun gliding from its slumber over the tender horizon, he is kissing the King of England and holding him in his arms. Bushy dissolves into a ray of golden light, his eyes closed, face upturned to meet Richard's, present only in the spaces where Richard's body meets his. 

Richard draws away too soon and rises. He turns toward the bed and reaches for a dressing gown. 

"You don't understand, Bushy. He's my cousin, but he can't win. I don't want him to win."

Bushy does not know what to say, and suddenly feels very aware that he is sitting, naked, on the ledge of a window that overlooks a garden where scullery maids have already begun to cut herbs for the kitchen. With a slight shiver, he crosses his arms over his chest and stands just to one side of the window, watching Richard.

"You don't want your cousin to triumph over his accuser, my lord? I don't understand." 

The only thing he can think to say is the literal truth. He cannot match the gracefully swaying posterior of the skinny naked man before him with the cruelty of his words. 

Richard turns around toward Bushy as he slips his arms into the linen robe, fastening it with a sash.

"He can't win, Bushy. I can't let him. It's too dangerous to let him win. But I don't want him to die, either."

Bushy presses his back against the cold stone wall, arms covering his chest but little else, and watches Richard lean his head back and smooth his wavy hair into a ponytail. He is securing it with a bit of blue ribbon when a knock sounds at the door. Bushy leaps for his own robe, on a chair near the foot of the bed, and Richard, seeing him in no condition yet to answer the door, simply shouts, "Come in!"

The door opens and Bushy, struggling into his green wool robe, sees the trim form of Aumerle appear. He throws closed the opening of his robe and rapidly ties the sash, pulse stinging his temples like bees. He flicks his head around toward Richard, who bounds toward the door to greet Aumerle with a hug.

"I have missed you, Cousin."

"As have I, Cousin," replies Aumerle, softening into Richard's arms.

Richard strokes his black hair with one hand and his chiseled jaw with the index finger of the other. Aumerle has the face of a general in a Roman statue and the body to match.

Bushy tightens the robe across his chest and moves slowly toward the door. 

Richard plants his lips on Aumerle's and the kiss lasts far too long for Bushy, who starts slinking away from the bed.  
"What did you learn?" Richard says, so softly in front of Aumerle's mouth that Bushy can hardly hear.

Aumerle looks over at Bushy, fidgeting with the opening of his robe, even though he has already tied the sash. Something in the center of Bushy's chest sinks rapidly, which must show on his face because Aumerle notices him and smiles.

"My lord, it is private information."

Richard looks directly at Bushy, who knows what he wants. Bushy gathers up the pieces of his clothing and, drawing his robe closer to him, looks back at Richard, who has invited Aumerle to sit next to him on the edge of the bed, and now rubs one hand up and down Aumerle's back. Richard is not paying attention to him, so Bushy says, "Thank you, my liege," and backs out of the door with far more pomp than the situation demands. He feels like the sun has gone out and the stars have refused to appear as Richard disappears through the door. Richard sits close to Aumerle and Bushy's heart evaporates, leaving only the slightest residue in Richard's room.

"Our cousin, Henry, will accept nothing more than victory in the lists over Mowbray," Aumerle says.  
Richard's face turns grim.

"He says it is a matter of principle and honor. He will be satisfied with nothing short of justice for our dearly departed uncle."

"I don't want him to die, but if he wins I won't be safe. I don't believe it's only justice that he wants, and if Mowbray loses, I lose, too."

Richard stands up and paces back and forth in front of Aumerle, rubbing the cuff of his sleeve between his finger and thumb.

"My lord, perhaps it won't be such a bad thing if Henry wins. People are already saying.."

"I know what they're saying, Aumerle. That's the point. If Henry wins, they will be proven right and I will face many accusers. Right now, it's just our cousin who accuses me openly."

"He's not accusing you. He's accusing Thomas Mowbray. It's important to remember that."

Richard stops pacing and faces Aumerle, throwing his hands up in the air.

"You think like a lawyer, Aumerle, not a king!"

"I am merely the cousin of a king, my lord."

He looks so crestfallen that Richard returns to his side and puts one arm around his shoulder, squeezing him to his side and kissing his temple.

"And you are loved by a king."

He says it tenderly, but the moment is pregnant with foreboding, and comforts neither of them. 

"I must dress and prepare. We have only a few hours left until Henry and Mowbray meet."

Aumerle rises. "I shall take my leave, then."

Richard turns his face plaintively toward Aumerle. "I want you there with me."

He looks small and scared, like a golden moth that Aumerle can enfold gently in his palm and deliver to a sheltering flower, and he wishes that he could. He hugs Richard tightly and strokes his hair.

"I can't imagine being anywhere else," he murmurs.

******************************  
Richard sits on a raised dais, well away from any bits of lances or armor, as well as dirt and blood, that might fly off the combatants or their horses. It's a warm day and he feels grateful for the canopy that shades the platform from the sun. The queen sits on her own chair next to his, her ladies whispering and giggling quietly behind her. They have brought favors and look forward to giving them to their champions in the tournament. A happy, colorful crowd sprawls along either side of the lists, but Richard does not share their mood, although does his best to hide it from the queen.

He cannot hide it from Bushy, who has been concerned ever since Richard sent him away in the morning, and has been watching him closely all day. He notices that Richard sits quietly and stiffly, with less than his usual elegance. His face has a placid expression, but his eyes scan the crowd anxiously.

"He is looking for someone," Bushy thinks, and positions himself just behind Richard's right shoulder to share his view. He, not Green, not Bagot, not the queen or her ladies, nor any of the other noblemen sitting on the platform, knows that Richard expects something bad to happen, and he longs to touch his shoulder, to stroke his hair, or even whisper in his ear to reassure him. He hopes Richard can feel his presence, warming and shielding his back.

Richard turns his head ever so slightly, and gives a little nod. Bushy's eyes follow the motion and see Aumerle, speaking with the Marshal and looking up at Richard. For the first time since leaving the castle, Richard's lips curve in a tiny smile and something breaks in Bushy. 

"It's always Aumerle," echoes in his head as Richard rises and the trumpets sound. 

"Marshal, read the charges that bring these two here." His voice sounds high and firm, but the vowels seem pinched and harsh, as though restrained with some effort. Tall and serene in his blue and gold brocade robe, he balances the orb and scepter as effortlessly as feathers, shimmering above the crowd. Bushy sees the muscles in his jaw work when he's not talking and a vein in his neck pulses. 

"What is he afraid of?" he wonders. While he's been lost in these details, Bolingbroke and Mowbray have declared their mutual grievances and Richard has given the order for the trial to begin. The clang of swords snaps him to attention. Bolingbroke levels a powerful blow that shatters Mowbray's shield. He stumbles and Bolingbroke pushes forward, raising his arms for another swing. 

Richard leaps to his feet and throws down his scepter, shouting "Stop!" in a single fluid movement and summons Bushy, Bagot and Green with his fingers.

Bolingbroke's arms pause mid-swing. Both men lower their swords and turn toward the king, raising the visors of their helmets.

"It occurs to me that banishment for both is just, and is the kinder fate. What do you say to that?" A current of terror shoots through Bushy, Bagot and Green. They have no time to think, no chance to confer and it's Bagot who breaks the silence, which has already gone on a split second longer than it should.

"I think it is both just and kind, my lord."

"I think so, too, your majesty. People will praise the wisdom of your decision," agrees Green.

Bushy hesitates. Richard is running away from something. He doesn't know what, but he knows that Richard has been acting like cornered prey, and that terrified animals rarely make the best decisions. 

"My lord, I mean no disrespect, but perhaps the safest thing is to let the natural course of justice prevail. Banishment will diffuse the heat, but won't extinguish the fires of justice."

Green elbows him surreptitiously and Bagot makes a disgusted sound.

"You have no idea what's safe right now, Bushy. Two out of three is good enough for me. We are decided."

He turns to face the lists.

"Rather than shed a single drop of your noble blood, I impose instead the sentence of banishment for you both." A gasp rises from the crowd. Bushy watches for Aumerle's reaction. Aumerle's handsome face twists with concern. 

"I said the right thing," he thinks with a small sense of satisfaction and a surge of affection for Richard.

Recriminations over the terms of banishment follow, and the exchange of more angry words between Bolingbroke and Mowbray. Bushy does not pay close attention because he is too involved watching Aumerle, who stands on the margins of the activity, struggling to maintain his composure and avoiding eye contact with Richard. Eventually, Richard makes Bolingbroke and Mowbray swear to abide by his terms, concluding the matter. 

In anticipation of whatever today might bring, Richard has ordered a smaller meal for only the most trusted members of his court instead of the lavish banquet that would normally follow a tournament day. They return to subdued festivities. Bushy angles to stay near him, and succeeds at being seated next to the queen. Aumerle, however, sits at Richard's left hand. Richard is inexplicably jovial and encourages lively chatter and flirtation between the lords and ladies at the table. He orders the musicians, who have been playing stately, somber music, to switch to merrier tunes. If something is bothering, him, he shows no sign.

"He thinks he did the right thing, and maybe he did. Maybe I was wrong." 

Bushy relaxes and begins to enjoy himself. He cannot see Aumerle without leaning rudely over the queen, so he cannot see the worry that clouds his green eyes in spite of the laughter coming from his mouth. 

When the meal ends, the guests disperse, leaving Richard alone in the hall with Bushy, Bagot, Green, and Aumerle. Bushy stands as close to his king as he dares, within the aura of his perfume and heat of his body beneath its heavy formal robes, resisting the urge to take his hand. He would relieve that body of its embroidered burden, bathe it with rosewater, and massage its stress away with lavender oil. With his mouth he would inhale its cares like smoke and part his thighs for its pleasure. 

Richard turns toward Bushy, Bagot and Green. 

"Thank you for your service, gentlemen. You may retire for the evening. Good night."

He meets Bushy's eyes as he says the last part. Bushy shudders with the terrible force of his dismay, but disguises it with a courtier's bow. He heads toward the door with Bagot and Green, stealing a glance over his shoulder as they reach it. Richard is kissing Aumerle's cheek, and Aumerle is saying something that makes him frown. The last thing he sees is their mouths locked together, and Aumerle crumbling under Richard's hands.


End file.
